


Visions of the future

by Russian_Fic_Store



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Time Period: First Cetagandan War, Winterfair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7649965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russian_Fic_Store/pseuds/Russian_Fic_Store
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Winterfair’s Eve one has to recall all the good things in life. And hope for the best.</p><p>Author: Awaiter<br/>Translated from Russian by MollyGrue</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visions of the future

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Мечты о будущем](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220314) by [Russian_Fic_Store](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russian_Fic_Store/pseuds/Russian_Fic_Store). 



The snow fell, whirled and scudded from all angles imaginable, right as it should on typical Winterfair's Eve, and it grew darker and colder with every minute. The wind blew from below, throwing lumps of snow up the mountain pass. Freezing horses walked tardily, treading slower and slower, snorting and shaking their snow-covered manes. The riders have been on the road for several hours already, silent, tired and cold.

They took shelter for the night in a post office hut, built on the mountain trail before the war started. Within an hour the horses were fed and wiped dry, and the stove roared, and one could drink scalding-hot tea from a rumpled tin cup and shove canned rations closer to the burning logs.

“Piotr, today is the Winterfair's Eve, really. That's an occasion. Grave and inescapable, like an avalanche”.

“Since when do you require an “occasion”? You drink like a fish. As if you are not a Vor.”

“General, this night your Captain will turn cold in your cuddle, if he is sober. Don't you nag me like an old wife, let’s get warm and go to sleep, we are both dead on our feet.”

“Embrace, you mean? Yours? The Emperor's family suffered grief, and you let yourself joke on it... let's drink to the Emperor's health and to our victory and then go beddy-bye.”

“No way! That would be two separate toasts. But first, - to Winterfair, to Barrayar, to Vor, to our family, - really, you are also part of it, so don't you make excuses, General Vorkosigan, - to the Heir's wedding, which will take the edge off the grief of Vorbarra family you’ve just mentioned... And belt it down, like a trooper, on one-two, as we are on march.”

“What a blabbermouth you are! One won't believe that such horseshit may issue from the lips of the most cunning and most fortunate of my officers.”

“I will have time to settle down and learn smart talk and smart tricks. When I make a General, like you, we may come back to this discussion. Though, you still charge head on, like a wild boar.”

“We drink, or ruin the evening?”

Later, when the flask was dried empty, and the logs turned to embers, they lay, back to back, conserving the heat and relishing the feel of peace and security. Protected from enemy eyes and scanners, the snow-covered hut on the mountain pass, was, surely, the most secluded place on the planet.

“Piotr, on Winterfair's Eve one has to turn one's thoughts to all the best, well, to orphans and old ladies, but... well... I feel no desire to. You, what about old ladies? Mmm... Then, what about widows and orphans?”

“Ezar, I am married!”

“Well, as you don't want to gab about skirts, let's chat about future. What does it have in store for both of us? Eventually, we will kick Cetas out, but the war will wage long enough to take the most of our lives. It will take the insurgents another fifteen years, at least, to realize they are not welcome... So, Piotr, we both will turn into good-for-nothing old farts by then. I will turn forty, hah! And just our children may have a normal life.”

“They would be lucky not to grow up orphaned... And we have yet to sire them, and one of us still has to get wed!

“Children? A son. And Heir. Well, Piotr, what sort of a man your son will grow into? Look, just the right topic for a Winterfair discourse! Tell me, what sort of a man you’d want your kiddy to be?”

“Well... first, my son should be a man of honor, second, he should make a good soldier, - and I want him to surpass me in military affairs... Well, I want him to be happily married and have a decent heir himself... What are you giggling at?

“Piotr, you are disgustingly humdrum... Vor up to par and a family man, ha-ha!”

“Well, I just don't want my son to become a binge drinker and a duelist, - demoted, scandalous type. Would you? A pervert, like Yuri, or that he would have mutant kids, - huh, Ezar?”

“My, no. I want my son to be happier than me. To have less blood on his hands, and that he wouldn't have to fight so much. That he would have no need to watch his every step and calculate the consequences of each and every one of his deeds. That he wouldn't have to sacrifice his soldiers and friends to the cause. Yes, I want my son to have a luxury to enjoy life, in style, and receive all the perks he is entitled to by his status. And reach higher than I did. What are you laughing at? A dandy? Why not? Yes, I think we can shape our future. At least, we should try. After all, me and you, we've molded right how our parents wanted us to. Right?”


End file.
